


Inky Footprints Don't Fade in the Sand

by Liz_isa_fangirl



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Disney Cartoons (Classic), Disney Duck Universe, DuckTales (Cartoon 2017), Epic Mickey, Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brotherly Love, Disney Bros, Family Feels, Family Secrets, Forgotten Mickey Mouse AU, Gen, Mickey's 60th Birthday, Protectiveness, not to be that bitch but Oswald and Mickey mean so much to me so please take this, that feeling when you're accidentally resurrected by your bro, that feeling when your heart is quite literally ripped out of your chest (hint: it's not Oswald)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 07:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16718743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liz_isa_fangirl/pseuds/Liz_isa_fangirl
Summary: Life isn't a Disney movie, where everything can be solved through song and dance; just ask Mickey Mouse.Or the Forgotten Mickey Mouse AU nobody asked for and you're getting anyways.





	Inky Footprints Don't Fade in the Sand

**Author's Note:**

> kudos to Watson, who is an absolutely wonderful person who put up with my constant spamming of this au in their messages. Extra Kudos to them for ALSO MAKING ME ART.

“What are you doing here! There’s no one allowed backstage!”  
  
The ferocity of the man’s tone of voice is enough to have Mickey take a step back. He raises his hands, palms facing outwards. He hopes with all his heart that the wizard was lying. He has to be.  
  
“Charlie, it’s me — what’s goin’ on?”  
  
Charlie the stage hand only gives the toon a once over glance, but it’s a nasty one at that. He’s holding a broom in a death grip; it isn’t helping Mickey’s thoughts of back away _backawaynow_ . The human’s sweeping is awkward and at the rate he’s going, it doesn’t seem he’s going to finish by the time the park closes..  
  
The thought must have occurred to Charlie too, because he squeezes the broom handle harder and throws a glare at Mickey.  
  
“I don’t know who you are but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”  
  
Mickey flinches.

 

* * *

 

He’s never been one to drink.

 

Really.

 

When he’d been younger yeah, but that was because Prohibition had been in full swing back in the very late 1920s and who _didn’t_ take part of that.

 

He’d been a black and white toon back then; not much restriction in what he could and couldn’t do — what the _Studio_ couldn’t do — with no agency hovering over their shoulder back then.  After all, if there had been, he wouldn’t have been forcefully thrown into the madhouse that one time. It’d been to get Pluto back, but the memories of fire flashing before his eyes and viscera hanging from the walls and scattered around the floor and skeletons dancing around him still haunt him.

 

The entire event in the short had been a dream, but it’d been anything but that during the production. The producers had wanted the real thing. The animators had wanted to see him screaming. They got it.

 

The Specter of the Mad Doctor still hangs around; the nightmares of him declaring he had one of his loved ones always have him shouting his lungs out. A pint every now and again warded those dreams away. Of course he couldn’t always have one, being the Studio’s poster boy and all, but a drink or two _(or three)_ never hurt.

 

It’s why he walks into the Cheers bar in the first place -- he aiming for some alcohol in his system -- he needs to erase his anxieties and the ever growing pit in his stomach that started taking shape the moment the kid that found him sleeping on the bench in the park left him behind.

 

“I don’t think this plan is going to work anymore” Andy Keaton had said. Said plan was to pass him off as the ‘real’  Mickey Mouse. Mickey had tried to tell him that he _was_ the real thing, but of course his attempts had failed.

 

“You’re no Mickey Mouse and it’s obvious; don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

 

The boy had then picked up his things, plucked Mickey up and kicked him to the curb. The only bright side the mouse had seen from this encounter was the new set of clothes he’d gotten; they were too big on him, but it was better than nothing.

 

He wandered around for a good few hours after that, one thought on his mind; _god, he needed a drink._

 

*

 

Cheers is somewhat of a sanctuary; he’s distracted from his current situation when he’s made to sing and dance happy birthday to a complete stranger. The ol’ toon instincts must be kicking in, because Mickey’s actually able to stand on his feet after the performance, despite feeling completely drained. He sings her happy birthday and isn’t it ironic that his is so close by too? He doesn’t mention this to anyone; he doesn’t want to think about it. He _can’t._

 

Sitting down at the bar again, he’s beginning to wonder if he should have ordered something to go along with his rootbeer float; a double is definitely something, but it’s not enough for one night, especially by itself. It’s too late now though; Mickey’s tab has already been settled, paid for by one Rebecca Howe.

 

He’s grateful.

 

*

 

Mickey is just on his way out to go looking for a suitable, out of the way hole-in-the-wall to sleep in -- conveniently located near a diner maybe -- when Rebecca invites him out to dinner and a movie with her. The way she spins around, with her coat seeming to float around her, all of a sudden reminds Mickey of Minnie; _Ubbe Ert Iwwerks Almighty_ , he misses his wife so much **_it hurts_ **. He’s gotta check his hammer space for a photograph later.

 

It starts to rain outside; his jacket isn’t made for this type of weather, so he says yes to the outing. He tries not to feel guilty about accidentally abandoning Minnie.

 

*

 

The news is shown right before the movie and it’s here that he gets a glimpse of the pandemonium back home: honestly, who in their right mind would believe _Donald_ was the reason for his disappearance; his best friend might have a few issues with him at work, but it was nothing more than a silly rivalry. And sure, maybe Donald saw Mickey ‘being the star’ as a slight against him, but he wouldn’t go as far as to try and _do him in_. Hollywood is absolutely off it’s rocker, if it’s actually buying any of this; Mickey just about crushes his can of soda from the fury he feels on behalf of his friend. He’s going to need a new pair of gloves.

 

The theater’s news clip is also where he hears (and sees) Minnie for the first time since the curse took his recognition and whole world with it; her desperate crying for him for cuts him deep. So much so that Mickey excuses himself.

 

He rushes to the restroom and loses what little dinner he had. His sobs echo around the stall, and maybe Minnie can hear his lamentation from here _; maybe his tears are the only connection he has to her now._ He hopes she still isn’t crying, that the broadcast was a few hours old and that Daisy and Goofy and Donald and the rest of his family are with her. Mickey prays to Ub’s spirit that she’s not alone, that she’s not forsaken like he is right now.

 

He starts crying again at that thought.

 

*

 

A long while passes and eventually, he pulls himself together, wiping away the tears and the red from his face. The next twenty minutes in the bathroom are spent studying his reflection, meticulously looking for any changes the wizard might have caused in his appearance.

 

Despite everything, it’s still him; same old face, same old ears. Same old clothes too, just that they’re worn and dirty from all his roaming around and roughing it; they’re starting to smell a bit and Mickey is really wishing he at least had a few quarters on him to go to the laundromat.

 

He instead settles for washing his shirt and pants in the sink. His jacket is just going to get dirty again, with him using it as a makeshift cot when he can’t find a newspaper to lie down on, so he decides to wait until he can actually afford to pay for the service.

 

Which probably won’t be in a while. With that in mind, Mickey scrubs until his hands seems to be turning the water gray with ink. He drains the sink and starts again.  

 

*

 

It’s late into the night when Mickey finally emerges from the movie theater’s bathroom. His shirt is still a bit damp and smells more like wet paper towels than soap, but he ignores that and sets about scavenging for the cleanest newspaper he can find; it’s a task made difficult with all trash in the alleyway he’s in. He finally finds one, stuck to the bottom rungs of a fire-escape. Mickey tucks it into his hammer space and then he’s on his way.

 

The mouse has never felt so alone.

 

* * *

 

“H-hey uh, buddy. You okay there?”  
  
Mickey peels his face off from the sidewalk and he instantly regrets it. The mailbox he currently has his body curled up around reads _D. F. Duck_ and _of course_ it belongs to Donald; the universe wouldn’t have it any other way.  
  
Mickey almost bursts into tears at the sight of his best friend, but he holds it in; it’d be rather weird to cry in front of stranger.  
  
Because that’s all he is to the duck right now.  
  
The mouse hastily scrubs at his eyes; the sun is rather bright this morning. A shadow suddenly blocks out the light and everything around him is a tinted green for a few seconds. He rubs at his eyes harder and looks up. Personal space doesn’t seem to be a thing, because Donald is leaning down very closely and staring at him.  
  
Mickey blames his already falsetto voice for the shrill noise that comes out of mouth. He also blames the isolation for the flinch that shakes his body as Donald grabs his shoulder.  
  
“Look I don’t know ya bud, but no toon deserves this.”  
  
He points at Mickey’s weathered duffel bag and clothes. He picks up the shoes on the edge of the sidewalk; there’s a distinct hole on the bottom of the left sole from all the walking the mouse has done.

 

*

 

“Ya wanna come inside? Me and my friends were about to start something and they wo—”. There are arms suddenly wrapped around Donald’s shoulders; they don’t let him finish his sentence.

 

 _Oh_ . _He’s being hugged_. The mouse is holding on to him like his life depends on it. Without thinking, Donald hugs him back and maybe he shouldn’t be doing that — the shoes are probably digging into the other toon’s shoulder — but it feels natural, right even.

 

Eventually, he does let go. He has to.

 

*

 

Mickey takes a deep breath. He takes a few steps back. The blank look on Donald’s face makes him take another.

 

“Sorry. Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. Thanks. Really. I- I appreciate it. But I can’t intrude — I don’t belong here — not anymore.”

 

It’s almost physically painful to say those words; it’s as if there’s a hole being burned into his throat. He takes the shoes from Donald and pretends that he didn’t let his hands linger on the duck’s.

 

Then he turns around and walks away. He doesn’t look back; Toontown won’t miss him anyways.

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t mean to do it, but it keeps happening; Mickey keeps ending up in front of the studio. Technically, it isn’t the  _actual_ studio; it’s really just a bunch of hangars, warehouses, and trailers inside an industrial park in Glendale.

 

The Grand Central Business Centre isn’t the nicest place -- the animators certainly don’t think so -- but it’s better than trying to get into Disneyland, where Mickey can’t even take a step without immediately being found; the security guards don’t like him anymore.

 

At least here, people and toons alike aren’t yelling at him to leave the premises. Especially if they can’t catch him.

 

So far, he’s been able to stay completely out of sight, but not without consequences; his last meal was more than a week ago and right now, stomach grumbling up a frenzy, he’s really craving some popcorn; he didn’t think to take a box before leaving the theater.

 

He’s regretting that decision _immensely;_ he’s hungry,  _starving_ even, and he can’t do anything about it. For one, the animators are smart; there’s no food lying around that he can filch, and despite the department working in the building, pure black ink is surprisingly scarce.

 

Mickey’s looked in every room in this building; he’s almost been unknowingly trapped by humans twice now and they’re none the wiser about anything sneaking around inside their office walls. He’s found nothing edible he can take without anyone noticing it being gone. He doesn’t want to be a thief, not yet; not unless he absolutely has to be.

 

*

 

Another two days pass and the mouse makes up his mind; legs trembling, he makes his way out of the loft of the trailer he’d been hiding in. Dust clings to his clothes, as does the musty smell of the old mildewy carpet. The light of the sun hurts his eyes; he’d been burrowed up in his jacket in a makeshift hammock made out of a stretched piece of canvas, trying to sleep off the hunger. That had been working somewhat well, until Mickey suddenly woke up to a coughing fit and ink streaming into his eyes and out of his mouth.

 

He needs food. And fast.

 

Using the last of his strength, he sneaks into the main building through a window. The emaciated toon climbs into the vent he’d been using as his means of getting around and crawls  two hundred or so feet; he’s about to turn right when the ‘floor’ underneath him suddenly gives way. The room around him is a blur as he crashes down into a table. Papers, pencils, and spilled coffee litter the area. The surprised voices of a dozen humans can be heard.

 

Mickey doesn’t notice; his eyes flutter open once and then after a long moment, he succumbs to the darkness that had been calling to him for the past week.

 

*

 

For a horrible moment, Jesse Montoya and the rest of the people present in room B-231 think the toon who just slammed right onto their work table is dead. The toon’s chest is barely moving and fat drops of ink are defying the laws of gravity, as they float up off of him and disappear before they hit the ceiling.

 

Darnell Rigby may have been the only one brave enough to touch the mouse ( _is it a mouse?_ They’re not really sure) -- getting his hand and shirt stained in the process -- but it was Montoya who picks him up. When he does, the mouse  _(?)_ unconsciously curls into him. He pretends to not be freaked out by this and fails.

 

“Henry.” No response.

 

“Henry.” Lots of whistling and feigned innocence.

 

“Goddammit Henry, I’m talking to you! What do I do? Someone take him.”  No one volunteers. Montoya panics, swivels around with the load in his arms.

 

“Take him! I don’t wanna carry him anymore!” He then proceeds to dump the mouse in Henry’s arms and ducks out of the way before the other man can properly react.

 

“Uh..” Everyone else takes a step back. “Okay then” Henry sighs. “This is happening.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey Mouse’s 60th birthday is celebrated at Disneyland as a day of mourning. The park is closed. People leave flowers at the gate.

 

His cake is cut in the quiet of Minnie Mouse’s home, where she and her friends are all gathered together. Roger Rabbit makes sure to light the right candle this time and as the happy birthday song is kicked off by the one and only Jessica Rabbit, Eddie Valiant blames the tears he sees streaming down Roger’s face as old age messing with his eyesight.

 

Donald and Goofy spend the rest of the night recounting stories about their misadventures with Mickey Mouse, with Donald providing sound effects and Goofy spinning the dramatics; Minnie’s crying, but no one can tell if it’s because she’s laughing so hard or because she’s missing her husband. No one bothers to ask.

 

The morning after, a small headstone is erected next to Walt Disney’s memorial.

 

*

 

Mickey Mouse celebrates his birthday near the brink of fading away. He almost wishes it were Dip; if it were Dip, it would be over by now. His heart is beating sluggishly and out of the corner of his eye, he can see ink -- _his ink_ \-- shifting around in a way it clearly shouldn’t. He’s scared.

 

The animators keep waking up him when he just wants to sleep. They’re asking him questions he can’t answer.

 

 _What’s your name._.

 

 _Mickey Mouse_ he tries to say. His attempts sounds more like static.

 

_M̨͏̞̲̩̠̜̙̪̗̼̗̺͈̗̬̱̪̯͔-͏̶͉͖̰̻̮̜͇̼̖͇̤̥͕͔̱͚̞̰̩̕M̵̴̞̳̦̖̥͎͍̞̦̖̼̭̻͎͓̳͟į̵̷͖̙͚̰̟̮͕̗̪̪̺̰͞ͅc̶̡҉̸̭̟̫̻̙͕̥̰̻̱͎͔̲̩̭̰̰̖͢k̶̨҉̢̜̦̲̣̝͍̗.̤͈̯̙̝̳͝͡ ̛͇͚͙̤͎̳̹̗̮E̗̦̬͉̭̻̥͚͓̪͙͙̭̕͘ͅȩ̡̢͏̬͕̱͙̜̜̰̭̥̺.̵̧͓̮̭̼̖̜͉͜ ̶̧͏͉̲̝̙͖͙͙̞̟̟͔̰̭̖̩ ͍̬̭̝̤͞͞M҉̹͕̩̥̯̪͈͓̖̻̯͉͇͎̦͢͟i̷͕̱͔̯͈̙̟͟͟͢c̶҉̣̺͔̫̲̜̻͇ͅͅk̰̩̪̪̥̱̼͕̮̫̭͕̤̘͓̠̻̥͙͜͞e͏̧͙̯̰͙̻͕͍̫̫y҉̷͓̟̣͚̖̮̩͟ ̶̤̘̬̼͍̬̞̗̰͚͉̦͝M̴̡̞̳̝̙̹̹̜̠̫̰͠ͅo҉͙͕̮̜̲̣͙̹͚̮͖͎̘̳̯͔̲ͅṵ̴͈͙̮͔̹̰͇͍̳͖̥̪͓͙͙͘ͅș̸̴͓͇̱̫̠̹͔̗̜̠͟͠͝ͅe̡͏̧̞̙̖̱͓̲͔̜̭̦̘̝̯. My name is ̵̡̭̺̠̺͐ͥ̊̐͡M̠̝̯̫͖̝̹ͩ͆ͨͤ͆͋ĩ̦͚̜̺ͫͣ̌̒c̸͓̭̝̗̯͙͙̫͑ͮͥ̉ͣ̏ͪ͟ͅk̸̤̺͇̝̖̞̜͉̀̚ͅē̛̗͍̣͓̠͂͒̍̊͌y̥̗̼̠͔̼̞̼͛͌͗ͫ͒͋̽̐ͫ͘͡ ̬͖̜̟͕͒͒́͟M̛͗ͮͦ͟͏̞͔̫ǫ̴͙̲̠̖͎͎̞͉̞͆͛́͐͘û̼̬̻̤ͧͦͯ͊̚̚s̮̲͙̞̩͎̈́͒̕eͤ͜͏̘̗̳͢_

 

They don’t understand, which isn’t surprising; he almost can’t understand himself.

 

*

 

He wakes again to find himself strapped to an operating table, with a distinctly weird feeling in his chest; he can only move his head.

 

There’s a bright light shining in his face and there’s -  _there’s someone moving something around the inside of his ribcage._ Mickey immediately start struggling, but someone else is holding him down and  _omigod it h u r t s._

 

He blacks out -- he must have -- because he doesn’t remember the moment his heart is pulled out of his body; all Mickey knows is that he looks up and there it is, shimmering above him.

 

The mouse’s shriek can be heard throughout the entire building. As it dies down, there’s a flash of light.

 

*

 

Oswald the Lucky Rabbit regains his body and the world’s remembrance on November 19th, 1988.

 

He opens his eyes to absolute chaos.

 

*

 

There are humans staring down at him. They look absolutely astonished and horrified, if he’s reading their faces right; Oswald hasn’t seen a human in a long, long time.

 

One steps forward and tries to pick him up, but he immediately hops right over him; no way in hell is going to let a human touch him. Especially not after the last time, when it was Walt Disney, a man he regarded as his own father, who tapped him on the nose and then left him at mercy of Mintz.

 

No, this rabbit has priorities; he touches down on the table and is met with a sight that is all too familiar to him; a toon, curled in on himself.

 

Looking closely, Oswald can see the skin on the toon’s wrists and ankles are a pale, ugly grey; clearly he’d been fighting his bonds to no avail. Panic and too tight restraints did that for ya.

 

The look on the mouse’s face is so much worse — it’s the face of someone who just realized they’ve lost their heart.

 

Feeling empathetic, Oswald pats his chest, bracing himself for the familiar stillness. Instead, he’s shocked to feel a tell tale heartbeat. A small sob shakes out of the rabbit’s lungs. A similar one echoes out of the mouse slumped next to him.

 

The pieces slowly start to falling into place.

 

*

 

Pulse beating loudly in his ears, Oswald leans over to get a good look at the mouse laying before him; if he’s right, then this poor toon is going to have to go through things he would never wish upon his worst enemy —not even on Charles Mintz — and that’s saying something. He reaches over and lays a hand on the mouse’s chest.

 

Or at least he tries to; a hand suddenly grabs at his wrist with surprising strength.

 

“Don’t. Please don’t do that.” The other’s voice doesn’t shake and neither does his hand; his other one is grasping at his front, clearly feeling the Dip inflicted scar. His eyes are on the humans standing in front of the room, following everyone one of their moves.

 

Oswald not so subtlety whirls around, standing in front of the injured toon. “If any of ya takes a step towards us, I  _will_ clobber ya with my foot.”

 

Humans aren’t good listeners, because one does steps forward; Oswald doesn’t hesitate.

 

What follows can be only descibed as something straight out of a cartoon, dust clouds and twirling fists included. Then, the human -- Henry -- is on the floor, Oswald standing on top of him; the others have fled the room.

 

“I warned you.”

 

*

 

Henry Franken looks at Oswald, clearly unamused; he doesn’t seem to be bothered by the turn of events.

 

“It was the only way to save him”, he says, pointing at what he now knows is clearly a rodent. The rabbit looks extremely skeptical, his brows bent in a heavy ‘v’.

 

“Really now,  _extracting his heart was the only way to save him?_ Listen here  _buddy_ , that’s a lie and I know it; I went through the exact same thing. And I died.”

 

The toon stops talking for a moment. His hands are gripping at Henry’s hawaiian shirt tightly; they’re shaking. The rabbit clears his throat.

“So did my family” he continues. “Don’t try and sell me this crap.”

 

Henry doesn’t appear to moved by the confession. “Well you’re here now; take advantage of it.” He suddenly gets up, catching Oswald by surprise; he makes his way towards the mouse.

 

Except he isn’t there.

 

*

 

**Author's Note:**

> Some changes I made to this story that are related to the 1988 special are as follows: Mickey disappears a lot longer than a week before his birthday, not five days. Eddie Valiant (who’s still alive because of toony circumstances) proves Donald’s innocence and so the duck is found not guilty. 
> 
> The "vignettes" in this story are told in chronological order but the amount of time between each one is not specified and left ambiguous. 
> 
> link to the special: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dmbHRPaAdv0  
> This story was also inspired by my post on tumblr that can be found here: https://meiloorun-notthefruit.tumblr.com/post/180294083552/disney-fandom-dont-tell-me-im-the-only-one-who


End file.
